The journey to Vienna was uneventful. Remy and Jehan had joined a caravan, riding alongside merchants and travelers for the sake of safety. Though the road was long and dusty, the company they met along the way proved to be a welcome distraction. Among their fellow travelers was Sir Peter of Eger, a man of boisterous humor and little restraint when it came to his favorite subjects, which were women and drink. He was accompanied by a handful of men, all seasoned riders who greeted Remy warmly as a fellow noble.

  Jehan, however, was far less amused by Sir Peter’s tales. More than once, she cast Remy a glance of silent exasperation whenever the man launched into yet another lewd anecdote. Remy could almost hear the lecture forming on her tongue, though she wisely held it back. Still, for all his vulgarity, Sir Peter was not without insight. He was a man that was well-traveled and well-informed, particularly when it came to the ongoing Hussite Wars in Bohemia.

  Remy had heard of the conflict before, but his knowledge of it was limited. It had always seemed like a distant matter, an upheaval confined to Bohemian lands, far removed from his own concerns. Sir Peter, however, spoke of it with the casual familiarity of someone who had seen its effects firsthand.

  “The Hussite Wars,” Sir Peter explained one evening as they rode, “are nothing less than a rebellion, an open wound festering at the heart of Christendom. It all began with one man... Jan Hus. A priest, a scholar, a fool, depending on whom you ask. He dared to criticize the corruption within the Church, and for that, he burned.”

  Remy frowned. “So he was a heretic?”

  “Depends on who you ask, good Sir!” Sir Peter replied with a smirk. “To Rome? Yes. To Bohemia? A martyr. His execution only fanned the flames of discontent. The people had long resented the Church’s greed, its excesses. And not just the common folk! Nobles, burghers, even members of the clergy had grown weary of its stranglehold over Bohemian life. The Church had failed in its duties, and the people saw Hus as a man who spoke the truth.”

  Remy listened intently as the man continued, his voice carrying over the steady clatter of hooves on the road. He spoke of how, in the years following Hus’s execution, Bohemia had become a land divided. The conflict was not merely religious; it was political, social, and deeply personal. The Church, once unquestioned, found itself under siege from every class of society. Even archbishops, such as Jan of Jen?tejn, had taken a stand against royal authority, further deepening the schism.

  “Wenceslaus IV,” Sir Peter went on, “was king for forty years. A weak man, but a clever one. He managed to keep outright civil war at bay. But when he died, the dam broke. The Hussite Revolution began in earnest.”

  Remy absorbed his words, piecing together the web of alliances and betrayals that shaped Bohemia’s recent history. Sigismund of Luxembourg, Wenceslaus’s half-brother and heir, had sought to claim the throne, but the Bohemian estates refused to acknowledge him. He had done nothing to prevent Hus’s execution, and worse, he had shown no inclination to treat the powerful Hussite nobles as equals.

  “He led a crusade against Prague in 1420,” Sir Peter said with a chuckle. “Marched in with all the righteous fury of the Papal forces. And do you know what happened?”

  Remy already suspected the answer. “He lost.”

  “He didn't just lost, he got grushed,” Sir Peter confirmed. “And that was only the beginning. The war has been dragging on for years. Bohemia has become a battlefield. The Hussites weren’t a unified army but have become a collection of factions. The Prague military pact, the Orebites, the Taborites. They fought together against external threats but turned their swords against one another for control over Bohemia itself.”

  Jehan, who had remained silent until now, spoke up. “And what of the Church?” she asked. “Surely it did not simply allow this rebellion to fester?”

  Sir Peter snorted. “The Church launched five crusades against Bohemia. Five! In 1420, 1421, 1422, 1427, and even now, in 1431. Every single one ended in failure. The Hussites were too well-prepared, too determined. The Catholic presence in Bohemia crumbled, abbeys were burned, parish churches taken over by Hussite priests. Even within the movement itself, a deep rift formed. The moderates wanted peace. The radicals wanted war. And so, the fighting continued.”

  It was a complicated affair, to say the least. The sheer scale of the conflict surprised Remy. This was no mere rebellion, it was a war that had reshaped an entire kingdom. Sir Peter found the whole thing fascinating, though he admitted he had little personal stake in it. He was Catholic, yes, but he had no desire to risk his life for a cause that did not concern him directly.

  “Then are Catholics persecuted?” Remy asked. “I hadn’t thought we would encounter war so far from Bohemia.”

  Sir Peter waved a dismissive hand. “Not here in Vienna. And not everywhere in Bohemia, either. The Hussites are not mindless butchers, at least not all of them. The real trouble now is in Pilsen.”

  “Pilsen?” Jehan repeated, tilting her head.

  “A Hussite town,” Sir Peter explained. “Or rather, it was. Unlike the rest of Bohemia, it remained loyal to the Catholic cause. The only major Czech-speaking city that refused to bend to the Hussites. It became the center of Catholic resistance, and as you can imagine, that makes it a target.”

  Remy exhaled slowly. The more he learned, the clearer it became that this war was not one they could simply ignore. It had already spilled beyond Bohemia’s borders, and even here its shadow loomed.

  Jehan’s brow furrowed. “So long as we stay clear of it, we should be safe, then?”

  Sir Peter hesitated for the first time that evening. “Perhaps,” he said, his usual bravado dimmed slightly. “But wars have a way of creeping into places you least expect. You are in the Empire! It will be hard not to get involved, seeing that you two are Catholics!”

  That, more than anything, left Remy uneasy.

  After parting ways with Sir Peter, Remy and Jehan found an inn to rest for the night. The establishment was modest but clean, its brick and stone walls lined with candles that flickered in the dim light. Remy exchanged his coin for Groschen and secured a room with two beds. It was a relief to have a roof over their heads after days on the road.

  Their meal and drink were brought to them in the room, a simple fare of bread, roasted meat, and cheese. As they settled in, Jehan, who had remained quiet for most of the evening, finally broke her silence. She had been brooding ever since Sir Peter’s discussions of the Hussite Wars, and now, with the privacy of their chamber, she could hold her tongue no longer.

  “For a long time now,” she began, her voice firm with conviction, “it has been clear to me that the Hussites have fallen from true Christianity into heresy. They are practically no different from the Saracens!”

  She set her tankard down with a thud, eyes burning with righteous indignation.

  “They have abandoned the true faith and replaced it with a disgraceful and unlawful superstition. There is no act of barbarism they will not commit in its defense. They corrupt the sacraments, mutilate the articles of our Faith, desecrate churches, and destroy the statues of saints and statues created as holy memorials! And worse still, they massacre Christians who refuse to adopt their beliefs. What madness drives them? What folly blinds them?”

  Remy listened attentively as she spoke, her words passionate and unyielding.

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  “They persecute the one true Faith! The Faith that God Almighty, the Son, and the Holy Spirit have raised and exalted through countless miracles! And yet, God does not strike them down. Does He not see their crimes? Do they believe they will escape judgment? Do they not realize that their continued sinfulness is merely proof that God is preparing even greater suffering for them?”

  She paused to take a sip of ale, her breathing heavy with emotion.

  Remy remained silent, allowing her words to settle before he responded. "Then do you want to 'punish' them, Jehan?"

  “For my part,” she continued, “If I could, I truly believe that the faithful must take up the sword and rid the world of this vile heresy. To tolerate their blasphemy is to tolerate evil itself! If they refuse to return to the light, then we must purge them from this world.”

  It was a bold and damning statement. He studied her for a moment, gauging the fire in her eyes. There was no hesitation in her belief, no doubt.

  He took a slow sip of his own ale before speaking.

  “Jehan,” he said evenly, “they are still Christians. They have simply lost their way. They have seen the greed that has consumed the Church in Bohemia, and they believe they are fighting for something pure.”

  Jehan scoffed, her expression tightening. “That does not excuse their crimes.”

  “No, it does not,” he admitted. “But nor does it justify slaughtering them outright.”

  For once, she did not immediately argue. But Remy could tell from the way she gripped her tankard that she was not convinced. The weight of the road was heavy upon him, and he was too tired to press the matter further. He simply let her words linger in the air, letting the silence fill the space between them as he turned his attention back to his meal.

  After a long pause, she asked, “Do you at least believe they are wrong?”

  He considered his words carefully.

  “Right or wrong,” he said, “what matters is that they have chosen the sword over peace. They have slaughtered their fellow Christians when they should have sought to reconcile. They have forgotten to turn the other cheek.”

  Jehan straightened, her frustration flaring again. “To tolerate evil is unacceptable,” she countered.

  He met her gaze and set his cup down gently. “Then tell me, Jehan, have you forgotten the parable of the lost sheep?”

  Her brow furrowed, but she said nothing. So, he recited it for her.

  “What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off? And if he finds it, truly I tell you, he is happier about that one sheep than about the ninety-nine that did not wander off. In the same way, the Father in heaven is not willing that any of these little ones should perish.”

  Jehan sat still, absorbing his words. The fire in her expression dimmed, giving way to something more uncertain.

  “You truly believe that they are merely lost?” she asked at last.

  Remy nodded, offering no further argument.

  By the time their meal was finished, Remy found himself seated by the window, gazing out at the city of Vienna. Below, the night air carried the faint sounds of merchants closing their stalls, of burghers and tradesmen making their way home, and of city guards patrolling the streets with torches in hand. The scent of cheese, dried fruits, olives, and fresh vegetables drifted up from the market stalls, lingering even on the higher floors of the inn.

  “You have a habit of gazing at the stars, Sir Remy.”

  Jehan’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

  She spoke from across the room. She had removed her armor, leaving it beside her bed. Without the breastplate, she looked smaller, less like a soldier and more like the young woman she truly was. As she was under his protection, he had granted her livery and a badge to wear, a sign of station, of belonging. As a man out of place and time, he had never objected to her wielding a crossbow or a sword. She carried a blade at her hip, but it was more for ceremony than combat.

  He smirked, not turning from the window. “Glad to hear you finally remember to call me by my name, Jehan.”

  “Sir Remy,” she corrected, her voice steady.

  He glanced at her then, noticing the seriousness in her expression, partially obscured by the flickering lantern light.

  “I do not understand you,” she said.

  He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

  “You are a noble by birth. A learned man, full of intricate thoughts. You speak so many languages, know so much about the world. You are both a warrior and a scholar.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “Is that what you think of me?”

  Jehan hesitated for a moment before pressing on. “Tell me… will you truly not change your mind?”

  “About ruling?” he asked. “No. I’ve made up my mind. I believe God has set me on this path.”

  “God?” she echoed, as though testing the word on her tongue.

  “A destiny, perhaps,” he mused. “A blessing or a curse… I do not know. But in the years I have lived… perhaps what I truly desire is to return home.”

  Jehan frowned. “I… don’t understand. Your home… is France.”

  “I doubt anyone would,” he admitted. “But what brought this thought to your mind?”

  She hesitated, looking down at her hands. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. “You are right. Despite their heresy… They are Christians. Lost sheep.”

  He raised his hand slightly, halting her train of thought.

  “Jehan,” he said, “sometimes it is best to let things unfold as they will. Perhaps it is God’s will that they have to fight.”

  She looked up sharply. “God’s will?”

  “It is conviction that keeps them in battle,” he said. “Do you truly believe they are entirely wrong? That the Church bears no fault?”

  She hesitated. “How could I?”

  He nodded. “It is up to the Lord to judge the living and the dead. And it is up to men to decide whether to bring the sword or to speak of peace.”

  “To do nothing at all?” she challenged him.

  “No,” he said firmly. “But timing is everything. Truthfully, I have no qualms about their beliefs. Yes, we are fellow Christians, but that does not mean we should force them to abandon their convictions.”

  Jehan clenched her jaw. “So you would let heresy fester?”

  He exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Jehan, to bring a sword to an argument of faith is to admit that you have already failed in upholding that faith. Belief must come through the mind, the heart, and the soul - not through threats or force. If we impose our beliefs upon them through bloodshed or force, then we are no better than those we condemn. Our faith would lack conviction and their faith would be brittle.”

  She studied him for a long moment. He could see the conflict in her eyes. She wanted to argue, to push back against his words, but there was doubt there too… doubt that had not been present before.

  In truth, Remy had little personal stake in the battles waged across the empire. It was not his war. It was not his goal. If Jehan chose to turn against him for his indifference, he had already accepted that he would leave her behind. This was his pilgrimage, his journey. He would not stray from it.

  At last, she sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  She offered him a small, sad smile. “Sometimes, I wonder if my faith has been lacking these days.”

  He met her gaze. “No. It only means that you are undergoing a trial of your own.”

  She nodded, as if weighing his words, then quietly sat on her bed. Taking her rosary in hand, she bowed her head and began to pray.

  He watched her in silence.

  Firm in her beliefs, yet still questioning. He did not know what to make of it. But perhaps, in time, she would tell him what truly bothered her.